


War Changes a Person Pt2 - Battle Scars

by chibiMuffin999



Series: War Changes a Person [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers - Freeform, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Comments loved and appreciated, Deleted Scenes, Extended Scenes, Grief/Mourning, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, The Avengers (2012) - Freeform, Torture, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, more characters will come, story expansion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3088493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibiMuffin999/pseuds/chibiMuffin999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's journey, TFA - TWS, in detail. The stuff we DIDN'T see in the movies. - - - Essentially deleted or extended scenes that I've created to fill in blanks and flesh out details. Character development aplenty. (Not slash)<br/>Comments/Reviews are loved and appreciated.<br/>(part 2 - Avengers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags, this may be upsetting and/or triggering for some. This story does not pull punches.  
> This story is a cross-post since fanfiction.net is being stupid right now. (See the original post here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10732994/1/War-Changes-a-Person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a formatting reference - Part 2 will take a sliiiiightly different approach than Part 1 did. I'll be splicing bits of Bucky's story in now and then with Steve's as we go along. Steve's story will still take precedence, but Bucky will be making appearance every so often, at least for a while

PART 2 -  _ **Battle Scars**_

_(THE AVENGERS)_

* * *

 

**A/N: **I apologize now for what I'm about to do your emotional well-being.**** _  
_

* * *

 

_**1945 - Location Unknown** _

Bucky comes around slowly, vaguely aware that everything hurts. His head feels like it's full of lead and his limbs feel jointed wrong. He blinks, but his eyes won't focus and his stomach heaves with weary resignation. It has clearly been doing so for quite a while, with or without his conscious participation. There's nothing left to bring up, but his body keeps trying valiantly nonetheless. It's almost inspirational, how determined it is.  
There is drying sick matted against one side of his face, and he can smell it in the air as awareness slowly coalesces over him. The acrid, pungent scent lingers like a fog. It almost masks the smell of blood that is, presumably, also coming from him. It  _also_  helps explain why he's dumped halfway onto his side; seems someone was trying to keep his airway clear while he threw up anything and everything left in him.

That thought brings with it an awful realization that sets a shivering chill through what little of him isn't already overloaded with pain. Whoever took him from the bottom of that canyon floor  _really_  wants him alive. Otherwise why not just let him choke to death on his own vomit? ...Or just leave him where he lay in the first place?

Taking a critically wounded man prisoner is all but unheard of in war… It's a lot of work for a negligible reward. Most of the time, badly wounded prisoners die; they just aren't worth the expense of their care. Merciful enemies finish the doomed men off quickly, and leave the body for the deceased's allies to find. The less merciful leave them to bleed out where they lay. ….No one collects them like drift-wood and carries them home. Considering what happened the  _last_  time Bucky was captured… A sharp spike of fear harpoons him, and he can't quite decide if this is better or worse than being left to die of exposure out there…

The truck he's been dumped into lurches sharply over a stretch of uneven road, and he slides across the floor to slam sidelong against a wall. His vague awareness of pain suddenly turns sharp and blisteringly immediate. He chokes on a wheezing gasp and a loud, miserable groan slips out before he can stop it.  
There is activity around him the instant he makes a sound. Rough hands haul him back from the wall, and someone none-too-gently grabs his chin and yanks it up to look him over. What they're looking for, he couldn't say. Maybe they find it. Maybe they don't. The hand shoves his face away a moment later. No one is talking to him.  
Someone barks what sounds like an irritated order over his head, in a language he can't understand, and then there's the unmistakeable pin-prick of a needle breaking skin. A cold shudder accompanies the sensation even as the rest of the world swims out of focus again.  
He slips back into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

_What's that weird grinding noise?_

Hazy eyes blink open to a surging, bright, and burning pain in what remains of his left arm - not to say that much remains. When he finally manages to straggle his blurry gaze in the right direction, there is a tiny worn-out looking bone-saw biting into his arm, slicing the tattered mess of flesh and shattered bone off clean at the shoulder.  
He's probably not really meant to be awake for this, but whatever they gave him in the truck is wearing off. He almost wishes they'd knock him out again, as terrifying as it is not to know what they're doing to him, just so he could be spared seeing this.  
With mounting horror, he watches the bloody muscle fibers slowly give way, chips of bone flying in wide arcs as the saw skips and tears its way through.

His eyes widen sluggishly and he tries to struggle, to jerk away from whoever is doing this, to  _run_  -panic flooding his veins; but his body won't respond. He can't move an inch. Not so much as a single weak twitch results from the wildfire of raw fear that's blazing through him. The scream that's rising in his chest stays trapped there, building like steam. A thin wailing sound is all that escapes.  
Someone's head twists to study him at the sudden noise, apparently alarmed. When he fails to move or struggle, the person wielding the saw relaxes again, and goes on about their business, ignoring him. They know he's awake. There was eye-contact. No one cares.  
The blurry shape of a person with the saw starts to hum and he realizes with a start that it's a woman. … A cheerful woman at that. The disconnect only makes the horror that much more palpable.  
They don't bother putting him under again.

Tears of agony, frustration, and fear linger on his cheeks by the time the amputation is done. Bucky feels ragged and exhausted. He's terrified, his left side is on fire, and he still can't move. A rough bandage is cinched over the raw nub of what was once an arm, and he squeezes his eyes shut around a searing wave of fresh pain as they snug it into place. They're not making any effort to be gentle with him, that's for sure.

He has no way to gauge how much time has passed, as disoriented as he is, but it feels like several hours at least. The dull tinking of metal tools in a steel sink echoes in the small space, somewhere off to his left. There is more tuneless humming as the plumbing shrieks and splashing water joins the background noise. Bucky's head is heavy and swimming. Every nerve in his body screams for relief that won't come. The noise it makes in his brain is deafening.

Two more people approach from somewhere across the room. There is some discussion, apparently about what to do with him. His captors argue quietly for a while before finally opting to leave their prisoner where he is, strapping him down to the frigid metal table. Someone tosses a sheet over him, almost as an afterthought. They are still conversing lightly amongst themselves as the three of them troop out and shut off the lights. The sound of a heavy deadbolt sliding home thuds ominously in the still room. None of them bother glancing back.

Bucky closes his eyes in the dark, and tries vainly to sleep. He's too weak to struggle.


	3. Chapter 3

_**2012 - Washington D.C. (two weeks after thawing)** _

Pushing his way past two big glass double-doors and through a small, tastefully decorated lobby, Steve finally finds the small block of offices that he's been after all day. There's a petite brunette with immaculate nails manning the huge, sleek wooden desk that dominates the space - neatly situated between two shiny, silver elevator doors. A couple of thick books with titles like " _War in America"_ and _"The Cap Effect"_ sit in a haphazard pile at her elbow. The woman is just wrapping up a phone call, accompanied by some irritated sounding clicking around on her computer screen. He waits politely until she's done.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" A distracted acknowledging noise as the brunette frowns thoughtfully at her screen. "I'm looking for the director of the Captain America exhibit."  
The woman at the desk nods, barely glancing at him. Her frown deepens slightly and she makes a correction to whatever she's been typing, then reads over it again.

"Do you have an appointment, sir? Dr. Hanson is very-" her eyes shift disinterestedly toward him, and she falls abruptly silent when they land roughly in the middle of his chest instead of his face. Slowly, they scan upward until she's looking him in the eye, growing wider and wider as they go. There's a stunned-looking blink and another long silence. "- ...busy…"  
Her dark brown eyes have goggled to roughly the size of baseballs and she's openly staring at him, pretty clearly gobsmacked.

Steve pretends not to notice.  
"I don't have an appointment, no, but I'd really like to talk to him anyway. Could you get him, please?"

"I-I don't… I can't-" she founders impressively for a moment, then seems to rally. " _ **Are you Steve Rogers?!"**_  The receptionist, -he glances at her name-plate:  _Ms. Tamera Sutherland-_  blurts out. She flushes immediately, looking mortified as soon as the words are out. Her eyes quickly drop into her lap and stay there.

Steve stifles a sigh. He should be used to this, but his patience just isn't what it used to be.  
"Yes ma'am." he grates out, trying not to sound as irritable as he feels. "That's me."

Dark eyes flick back up to study him. The frown is back.  
"... Forgive me, but… you're dead."

This time he does sigh.  _Right…_. He keeps forgetting that, technically, he's a ghost at this point. … If the SSR files are accurate, he has been for almost 75 years.  
"Not exactly..."

Ms. Sutherland's eyes slowly narrow as she looks him over, suspicious, and her lips purse.  
"What was your mother's maiden name?" she asks suddenly, one hand shifting unconsciously to her hip. She looks a little like a scolding church lady when she does that, and he wonders idly if she realizes it.

"... O'brien…" he says slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"When was she born?"

Steve makes a frustrated noise. "Look, ma'am, that's really none of your-"

Ms. Sutherland cuts him off sharply with, "If you don't even know when Sarah Rogers was born, I can't let you-" and he has to admit, he admires her nerve, even if she's annoying the living daylights out of him right now.

Steve decides to just play along. What does it matter? His mother's been dead for close to 100 years, anyway. It's not like the information is all that private anymore.  
"My mother was born on April 19th, 1897." he says promptly, before Ms. Sutherland can really wind up a temper. She seems to stumble on his sudden candor and goes quiet, apparently trying to recollect her thoughts.

For a moment, in his mind's eye, Steve can see a slight blonde woman in a faded grey sundress, looking out their tiny, dirty window into the early spring morning. She turns to him and smiles, declaring that it is going to be a wonderful birthday. A thin hand ruffles affectionately through his hair.  
She said that same thing, 'it's going to be a wonderful birthday', every year like clockwork … at least up until the the year that she died. That year, she really hadn't said much. Just held his hand in withered fingers, squeezed with whatever strength she had left, and told him to be a good boy when she was gone.

A tiny ache swells into being inside his chest, but he pushes it down.

"Ma was the youngest girl of eight kids. Married my dad when she was 20, had me when she was 21. She passed two weeks before I turned 18. I remember 'cause she was trying so hard to make it 'til after my birthday." The eyebrow arcs just a little higher, and he swears he doesn't  _mean_  to sound bitter when he says, "I can tell you her favorite color or what perfume she wore on Sundays if you want, but I'm not sure that's relevant."  
Sutherland's mouth is hanging open now, and he can't quite tell if the look on her face is shock, delight, or both.  
"Can I see Dr. Hanson now, please?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Dr. Hanson? Captain Rogers is here to see you. He says it's very important."

His breathless receptionist is peering around the doorway when Doug Hanson -the head curator of the Captain America exhibit- looks up from his paperwork. Tammy's curly brown hair wisps lightly after her face as she jerks her head toward the lobby, dark eyes wide, and silently mouths  _it's Captain -fucking- America!_

He blinks at her, trying to process that, and comes up empty.  
Tammy Sutherland is a smart young woman, and she's been the full-time admin assistant and receptionist for his office for the past four years. Tammy started as an American History grad student on work-study roughly -forever- ago, and she did her goddamn  _graduate_   _thesis_  about Captain America's impact on the country, and how we approach war and international conflict. She's been working tirelessly on an application for a Research Librarian position in the Library of Congress for the last several weeks.  
The thing is, Tammy is bright. She knows the history on this subject backward and forwards… so she knows  _precisely_  why that's not possible.  
What could shake her up enough to fall for such an obvious prank?

"Tammy…" He starts gently, setting down the paper in his hand, "Captain America is  _dead_. You know that. He died decades ago-"

"-Actually...," A sardonic-sounding blonde man's head suddenly appears above Tammy's shoulder, startling them both, and Hanson has to do a double-take.  
He glances between the framed Time magazine cover over his desk (July of 1944), and the man in his doorway. His mouth goes dry.  _Holy_ _ **hell**_ _, it IS him…_ "-I just took a really, really long nap." the man who can only be Captain America finishes with a shrug.

The Captain has the bearing of a man who'd rather be just about anywhere else, as he carefully wedges himself through the doorway around Tammy and approaches the desk. He stiffly holds out one hand to Doug at waist level. "Steve Rogers, Captain America, former Howling Commando." Is it his imagination, or did that sound just a  _tiny_  bit petulant? "Nice to meet you." It comes out sounding like the Captain would rather be having a root-canal.

Hanson stares between the extended hand and his assistant's face, waiting for her to let him in on the joke. Any minute now, she'll crack up and this guy will pull off his mask or whatever and-  
and…  
and…  
And, no... this is really happening.  
After a few seconds without any hidden cameras bursting out of his filing cabinet, he stands dazedly and takes Rogers' extended hand, pumping it perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The Captain looks like he's trying hard not to sigh.

"It's… it's an honor to meet you, Captain Rogers… Please, make yourself comfortable…" Doug quickly indicates a padded chair just in front of his desk. Rogers doesn't even glance at it.

Hanson looks back at Tammy, who seems exceedingly pleased with herself ...and like she's about to vibrate out of her skin with excitement.  
 _ **TOLD**_   _YOU!_  Tammy mouths triumphantly, smirking just a little tartly at him, before turning to cast a radiant smile at Rogers. "If you need  _anything_  else, Captain, I'll be at the front desk where you found me. Don't even hesitate to ask."

The tall man nods and gives her a wan smile back, and then Tammy's vanishing back out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. Rogers continues to pointedly ignore the chair that's directly to his left, so Doug doesn't sit either.

"I'd like to talk to you about the exhibit you have up about me right now." Rogers informs him flatly when he turns back, arms crossing firmly over his chest like he's expecting a fight on this. The man's back is ramrod straight and his massive shoulders are crisply squared beneath a neat khaki jacket.  
The curator swallows hard, thoroughly intimidated. Living history is standing in front of his desk - and it looks pissed. "Yes. ...Right. Of course."  
He fumbles out a note-pad and a pen and slaps them down on the surface of his desk, wincing a little as the awkwardly loud noise echoes around his uncomfortably silent office. "So… uh… W-what did you think?" And if there's a hint of hopeful pride and just a the tiniest bit of fishing for praise laced into his voice? Well, he worked hard on this. What of it?

"Um… well, honestly-" Rogers looks exceedingly uncomfortable for a moment. "- It's awful." he says, his hard stance breaking down a little. He reaches up to rub a hand awkwardly up and down the back of his neck.  
Hanson resists the urge to stare. His entire world just shattered in the space of that sentence, and here's  _Captain -fucking- America_  is making an 'aw gee shucks' gesture in his office. Does Captain America even  _do_ that?! He swallows hard again. The thin note-pad in front of him suddenly seems very, very inadequate.

"I… I see." There's a long, uncomfortable pause, during which neither of them speak. "Could you… I mean… what's wrong with it? Did we leave something out? I know some of the photos are old and grainy, but-"

"It's not just the photos-" Rogers interrupts quickly, "although ...it's definitely weird seeing my baby pictures behind a glass case…" The Captain's hand is still fidgeting with the nape of his neck and Doug is near mesmerized by the motion. "But you got everything really  _wrong_ -" Rogers breathes out in a huff. "Just…  _everything_."

"Oh." The curator sets his pen down and tries to remember how to breathe properly. He's just been told -twice now- that his life's work is a failure, -by his life-long idol, no less,  _and_  the subject of his PHD …Yeah, he can totally handle this.

… He's handling this.  
… He's not melting down. He's  _not_.  
Not in front of  _Captain America_  he's not.

"You alright?" Rogers has stopped fidgeting and is now leaning a little bit over the desk, looking concerned.

… Nope, nope he was wrong. He can't handle this. -But he can maybe salvage it.

Hanson clears his throat.  
"Captain, I apologize for any mistakes we've made in our representation. We did our best with the information that was available, but there was so much propaganda surrounding you and your command and-" He stops himself from whining and defending before he  _really_ manages to embarrass himself, and changes course. "Is there - ahem- is there any way I could convince you to help me bring our information up to date and fill in some blanks for us? To correct whatever we got wrong? I'd certainly like our exhibit to be as accurate as possible, and you'd... be a huge help…" He trails off. Rogers is smiling.

...Sort of.

Rogers' lips have definitely quirked up one one side and his eyes have softened slightly. There's a hard, bitter edge that never quite leaves his face, but he doesn't look pissed anymore, so that's progress.

"Sir," -and yeah, the weak proto-smirk thing is widening into a very thin smile. "I would be happy to do  _exactly_  that. Do you have some time right now?"

Doug immediately has Tammy clear absolutely everything else on his schedule for the afternoon. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and he does  _not_  want to be interrupted.

* * *

_**A/N: Awww, look at Steve. Already making new friends in the future. ... Sorta.** _


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: Happy New Year, kids. Here's a nice big upload of angsty goodness. Something to see you into 2015 :) (Again, I apologize for the emotional scars you are about to receive)_ **

* * *

_**1945 - Location Unknown** _

There are more surgeries. He's awake for some, blurry and drugged for others - when he starts to jerk and fight against the restraints. He's probably out cold for still more of them, but there's no way to know.  
He doesn't know how long it's been since he fell. With no windows, it's hard to gauge how much time passes when he sleeps or just loses consciousness for a while. He imagines that it must have been days by now. Maybe weeks… he can't tell.  
They don't give him anything for the pain. He didn't really expect them to.

* * *

Once, he surfaces from the haze long enough to hear someone with a thick accent speaking clumsy German. He realizes dizzily that it's a phone-call when there's a long pause before the voice speaks again.

 ***** "Ja, Sir , wir sind sicher, dass er es ist." Another short pause. "Sie wollen, dass wir weitermachen?" A pen scratches busily on paper. "Ja gut. Erhöhen Sie die Dosierung?"  
This time the pause is lengthy. He almost thinks they've hung up when the voice speaks again. "Verstanden. Wir werden weitere Aufträge zu erwarten. Heil HYDRA."

Bucky's never had been as good with the language as Jones is, but he knows enough German to understand the gist of what was said. ...And that they've been pumping him full of a lot more than sedatives. A horrible realization rises and bursts like a bubble over him.

 _They're still testing the serum... These sick assholes are finishing what Zola started.  
_ He flinches instinctively at the name, like he expects the beady spectacled eyes to be watching him.  
 _Zola…  
_ Zola spoke German to his underlings in that lab. Zola was still on the loose when he fell. There's no telling where that evil little fucker is now...  
 _He found me again,_ Bucky thinks, eyes involuntarily going wide as footsteps make a leisurely approach from the next room.  _Please god, tell me they didn't get Steve too…_

"Sergeant Barnes." A man looms over him in a white coat. It isn't Zola but it may as well be. Barnes swallows thickly and doesn't let himself look away. He won't give this bastard the satisfaction. He wishes he had the strength to spit right in their smug face, but maybe he'll get his chance later. The man doesn't appear to notice the murderous look in Bucky's eyes, or maybe he just doesn't care.  
"So nice to officially meet you. Your cooperation is appreciated."  
The man smiles serenely down as he stabs a needle into Bucky's thigh and the world spirals away into emptiness again.

* * *

***Translation:**

_Yes sir, we're sure it's him. Do you want us to continue?_

_Yes, good. Increase the dosage?_

_Understood. We will await further orders. Hail HYDRA._


	6. Chapter 6

_**2012 - Washington D.C.** _

They cover Steve's fateful flight on the Valkyrie and his abrupt reawakening 75 years later, right off the bat; largely because Hanson won't shut up about it until they do. Steve explains that he's not really allowed to give the museum Director Fury's contact information to ask more questions, but he might be able to convince the Director to contact them instead. His own doubt on that front must carry in his voice, because Hanson is quick to assure him that that won't be necessary.  
Once the 'how' of Steve's unexpected survival is squared away, they get to the crux of the biggest thing Steve had hated about the exhibit: the godawful, bullshit representations of Morita and Fallsworth - and the utter  _lack_  of representation for Jones.

Morita is, for some bizarre reason, treated like a whiney, chicken-shit agitator. Every disagreement the team ever had is somehow attributed to him. There are even suggestions that the other Commandos secretly loathed him; and Steve is absolutely seeing red the first time he reads  _that_.  
He can't even  _count_  how many times Jim saved his life - how many times he saved the lives of the entire team. The Commandos worked as a unit. They protected each other each and every day in the field. There  _were_  no bad eggs in the bunch.  
The exhibit even goes so far as to describe Morita as being 'shifty' in one panel, and 'difficult' in another. Steve is breathing fire by the time he's done addressing  _that_.

The rotten depiction starts to make more sense a little later, after he does some reading about Jim's post-war life, and the activism he got involved in. It's no wonder people wanted to discredit him.  
Jim Morita was never one to be quiet about what he thought and he didn't take discrimination lightly. He'd have made himself heard, and the powers-that-be obviously hadn't much liked what he'd had to say.

Steve doesn't give a good goddamn what the powers-that-be like. He makes sure the Smithsonian team knows  _exactly_  how damned brave and resourceful Jim was; how well loved and respected by his brothers in arms. He makes them scrub every nasty, gossipy word about Morita out of the exhibit before he's satisfied. And he makes sure they include every sincere, honest fact that he gives them instead.  
"Go talk to any of the Commandos or their families if you don't believe me!" becomes a refrain. He realizes too late that there aren't any other Commandos left alive for the museum to talk to.  
Fury already told him that his team has long sinced passed away… it just hasn't sunk in quite yet.

At least Fallsworth's depiction isn't so much malicious, as just… flat and incomplete. The man is portrayed about as dry and as boring as a saltine cracker - and that just ISN'T Monty. James Fallsworth was a serious man, but he was also sharp and clever, with incredible integrity, courage, and a wickedly sly sense of humor. Monty was an amazing man and a better friend, as well as an absolutely vital part of the Commandos. Steve will happily destroy anybody who wants to try and convince him otherwise.

Hanson, wisely, quickly stops making weak protests in favor of his inaccurate facts and just starts scribbling frantic notes instead, while Steve talks him through the (myriad) mistakes around the Commando's portion of the exhibit hall.

For reasons Steve can pretty easily guess, they've got next to nothing about Jones on display at all. He's in the background of a couple of photos and his name's on the team's roster - mounted on a small brass plaque near the door- but beyond that he may as well not have existed at all. There is no mention of his lengthy service. No mention of his unflinching loyalty and courage. No mention of the vital field-medic skills he brought with him, which saved everyone on the team's lives at least once, at some point or other. No mention  _at all_  of him successfully completing that last fateful mission in the Alps, despite Steve's utter failure to do so, and his steady presence helping to ground the team after the loss of Sergeant Barnes.  
Steve is absolutely appalled.

He's apoplectic with the entire mess, honestly; a sight which is apparently pretty damned intimidating. Once he gets going, nobody argues with him - though one intern lets out a frightened squeak when he starts ranting at full volume, and he has to forcefully remind himself to bring it down a notch. These people didn't know any better when they set this farce up, and his scaring the hell out of them isn't really helping... even if it IS a little cathartic.

There are at least twenty-six pages of notes before he's quite done complaining about the absolutely ridiculous exclusions, though, and he adds with barely restrained anger, that he expects them to  _find some good goddamn photos of_ _ **all**_   _of the Commandos to put up in here._ And they'd better stop kissing his ass and focus on his team  _because they did most of the goddamned work_! He didn't win the fucking war  _by himself,_  for god's sake! These puny and/or blurry newspaper shots are  _not_  doing it.

Hanson nods meekly along the entire time, brow furrowed, writing and writing and writing until he's bound to get a cramp. Ms. Sutherland, his assistant, follows along with a tablet aimed steadily at Steve, soaking up every word with rapt interest. She refused to be left out of this, once she caught wind of what they were doing, and neither Steve nor Dr. Hanson really wanted to fight her about it. Steve respects a lady with grit, and Hanson is just too bowled over to fight  _anybody_  at the moment. Some poor sucker new-hire apparently drew the short-straw to watch the front desk while she's away. He was amusing himself with some little pocket gadget the last Steve saw him, typing furiously on it. He doesn't much care what about.

Steve glances back at Ms. Sutherland, who looks like a little kid at Christmas. He's pretty sure at this point that he could bellow in her face, and as long as it was about the Commandos, she wouldn't even blink.  
He's not really sure how the 'tablet' thing she's carrying works, but he takes the curator's word for it when he explains it's recording everything he says and does, just like a camera. Why not? Steve's in the future. Sure, he'll buy that this thin slab of …  _whatever_  metal that is- with a little screen set in it, can capture all of his ranting.  
Fine.  
Great.  
Whatever gets this travesty fixed faster, he'll run with it.

Surprisingly, the museum actually didn't do too badly with Dugan or Dernier. He adds a few fairly minor notes about both men, corrects a couple of inaccurate facts, and then turns his attention to the monumental task of fixing Bucky's sorely lacking mention - a subject which will be a rant in and of itself.

Bucky, who is loosely acknowledged as Steve's close friend from childhood in a very small plaque near the exit. Who is in the foreground of several pictures, but is barely spoken of aside from a name, an age, a rank, and a label of 'the team's sniper, Sgt. James B. Barnes'. Bucky, who amounts to a handful of (woefully inaccurate) facts on a small, dingy poster behind grubby plexiglass in a forgotten corner. Who is really only talked about in any detail as the only other Commando known to die during the war. They have a little "R.I.P" plaque and some dusty fake flowers mounted on the wall beside a small newspaper clipping of Bucky's obituary from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.  
They don't even try to capture Bucky's charm, his brains, or his courage. They definitely don't mention the personal hell he fought through to be where he could watch Steve's back… though Steve's not really sure that part is anybody's fucking business but his and Bucky's.

The exhibit doesn't acknowledge anywhere how invaluable Bucky was to the Commandos, nor especially how invaluable he was to  _Steve_. How much he supported, guided, and protected Steve out there. How Steve Rogers wouldn't have entered combat at all if he hadn't been looking for his best friend, missing in action. How Rogers really came into his own as Captain America when he raided that Hydra compound in Azzano, hell-bent on finding Bucky.  
Most astonishingly, they seem to have that  _particular_  act of rebellion down as an authorized 'secret SSR rescue mission'. As if he had full approval -even implying he had  _orders-_  for his one-man suicide assault. Steve actually breaks into a dark chuckle at the thought and shakes his head.  
Colonel Phillips would be turning in his grave if he could see that nonsense.  
… Probably after giving Rogers hell for failing to report after the crash of the Valkyrie. A hard-ass through and through, that guy.

Steve shrugs off the now-familiar cold, disconnected feeling that forms in his belly and rubs wearily at the bridge of his nose to ground himself. He's been thinking a lot about Phillips lately.  
He hopes the colonel did alright after the war. There isn't a whole lot of mention of him once S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded, and Steve has no idea what happened to the man. There's nobody he can shout at to get answers, that's for sure - the information simply isn't there. He looked. He has little choice but to let it go and hope that no news is good news...

This exhibit however… that he can man-handle a bit. That he can fix.  
Most everything in here is Steve, Steve, Steve. Or more accurately: it's all about Captain America.  
That's going to change.

"Dr. Hanson," he says, pausing in front of a grainy group photo of the Howling Commandos, his eyes lingering on his best friend's black-and-white face, "Let me tell you about Sergeant James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes." He feels his face creasing into a wan, bitter-sweet smile as he glances back over his shoulder. "...You might want to grab a bigger notebook first."

 


	7. Chapter 7

_**1945 - Location Unknown** _

They've started keeping him in a cell, now that his body is more or less repaired. He can stand under his own power again, and even walk shakily from one end to the other if he's so inclined.  
He rarely is.  
He's not sure yet why they're working so hard to nurse him back to health, because it's sure as hell not out of concern for his well being. It's making his skin crawl, just sitting in here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky stands beside the plank of rough wood that they've labeled a bunk, his one hand braced against the wall for balance, and stares up at the ceiling, taking stock of what he knows. Things fade in and out of clarity alarmingly when he tries to pin his thoughts down, though the heavy feeling in his brain has finally subsided. He can focus if he really puts his mind to it, but the splitting headaches that follow are almost enough to deter him from trying.  
He wishes there was more he could be sure of. He must've hit his head something spectacular back there, but at least it didn't  _completely_ scramble his noggin...

His name is at least still clear. James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky among friends. He'll kill anyone here that calls him that. He's a Sergeant, captured before - and tortured. A sliver of a horrified shudder marks that memory and he doubts it'll ever fade. ( _Of course_  the memory he least wants is the most resilient. Why the hell not?)  
He's knows he's a marksman for the US Army… or… at least he was. Bucky glances down at the short stump of what was his left arm. Not likely he'll be doing much sniping after all this. Can't aim worth a damn with one hand.  
He knows he was wounded when he fell from somewhere up high, but he can't quite pin down where or how that happened. Someone was screaming his name as he tumbled head over ass. Someone important. His skull blossoms with scarlet arcs of pain anytime he thinks about it too hard. He'll come back to that one.

The thing that stands out the clearest in his mind is Steve. Thank god he can still remember that little shit. Or…  _well no_ , he reminds himself,  _Steve's a big bastard now._  He lets himself indulge in a moment of pride about Steve before moving on.  
Steve is safe somewhere because of Bucky. He's pretty sure he remembers that thought etching itself firmly across his brain as he fell. It's like a brand in his memory. Steve survived. As bad as things are here, that's important. He did his job. Now he's just gotta wait for Steve to find him and get him out of here… wherever the hell 'here' is.

It never occurs to him that Steve might not know where to look, or that he should be looking at all. Bucky's mind glides tractionlessly over the idea that, to his friends, he's a dead man. Somehow faith in Steve Rogers just comes so naturally. Instinctively. Barnes was rescued before when everything seemed hopeless. He  _will_ be rescued again; he just has to hold out until then.

* * *

The man in the labcoat has come back, this time bringing a little wooden stool with him. He shuts the door, nodding at the two black-uniformed guards outside, and sits down in the middle of the cell, serenely crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his knee.  
"Sergeant Barnes, I have a question for you."

" 'Answer's 'fuck off'." Bucky snorts, settling himself gingerly on the edge of the hard 'bunk' they've given him. It has no bedding, but it's something to sit on. He glares at the man across from him. A sedate smile is his answer.

"Come now, that's no attitude to take. Let us all cooperate with one another. You know what we can do first-hand, do you not?"  
This fucker speaks pretty good English, Bucky notices. His accent is definitely thick, but he's not struggling with the words like the guards usually do when they shout orders into the cell.

Barnes lets out a dark chuckle in answer and waves the inch-and-a-half nub of his left arm at the man. "Got news for ya', fucker.  _You_  didn't do this. Gravity's a real bitch sometimes, huh? I ain't scared of you assholes."

"Oh removing a limb is so barbaric and simple." That damned creepy smile just won't go away. It's giving him a chill. "No, I think your time with Dr. Zola should have given you a little taste of what resistance will buy you."

Bucky feels a tiny shudder start up at the base of his spine. He pushes it away. He could pretend to cooperate, of course. Feed them false intel... but he has the feeling they'd catch on pretty quick. This guy seems canny and eerily observant. Bucky doubts he'd be able to get much past him.

Barnes smirks sardonically. Maybe it's good that his head's all mush lately. He couldn't tell them anything useful even if he wanted to. "I ain't the code guy or the plans guy. Sorry, fucker. Nothin' interesting in here." Bucky taps his own forehead with two fingers. "All I can tell ya is name, rank, and serial number." He bears his teeth in a predatory smile of his own. "Ask Zola how good I am at tellin' that."

"Oh don't be silly, Sergeant." The bastard just sounds amused. "We don't need battle plans or secret codes from you." he flaps a hand dismissively. "We can get that information anytime we wish, and from a far more reliable source." The man's face tips slightly, as if considering something interesting. "I see you haven't heard the good news then."  
He takes Bucky's smolderingly defiant silence as confirmation. His smile is like ice.  
"Captain America is dead. I was going to ask if you knew."

Bucky's mouth falls open, in spite of himself. The serene smile across from him widens just a fraction.


	8. Chapter 8

_**2012 - Washington D.C.** _

They end up having to retreat to Hanson's office for this, when the note-pad he's been toting thus far ends up in fact being nowhere near up to the task of absorbing the tidal-wave of stories and random factoids that flow out of Steve as he warms to his subject.

Steve finally accepts the proffered seat in front the curator's desk when it's offered again, this time with none of his earlier frosty edge. He waits while Hanson sets up what he calls a 'laptop', (apparently a miniature computer - he  _is_  in the future, Steve reminds himself again-) and fusses around with it for a few minutes.

"...Alright, there we are. You were just saying something about Sergeant Barnes' marksmanship?"

"Right, well Bucky was a sniper. The best damn sniper in the US Army, and I'm not the only one who'll tell you that. He always had a really sharp eye, even as a kid, and real steady hands. Could hit a fly at 100 yards - and he did a couple times, just to show up anybody that didn't think he could do it."  
A rapid tempo of click-click-click-clack rises from the little flat keyboard across from him as the curator's fingers fly over it. Steve tunes out the noise, turning the memory over in his mind, examining it from every angle.  
"Buck didn't think much of the Army's basic marksmanship training. Thought they glossed over too much, didn't teach you anything but which end to point at the enemy and how to pull a trigger without hurting yourself. He made us all practice with him when there was downtime, the stubborn bastard..." He hears the warm, well-worn affection seeping into his voice, and Hanson apparently does too, given the way the clicking slowly dies off and the hands still over the keyboard. There's a brief, heavy lag in the air between them. Steve just doesn't have the energy to push through it.

"He  _made_  you all practice?" the curator says at length, apparently just for something to say, resting his hands beside his computer thoughtfully. "Even though at least two members of your team outranked him?"

Steve chuckles just a little in spite of himself, and settles back in his seat. He finds he loves talking about Bucky, even if it hurts like a fish-hook is buried in his sternum, slowly tearing it out through the skin. He might still be a little messed up - but to be fair, it's been… what a couple weeks? A month? ...At least for him, it has been… He figures it's fair if the wound is still a little raw.  
Steve keeps having to remind himself that his best friend has been dead for close on a century, and it's like a shot of ice-water in the face every time.

"Well... we were a little different than your average Army unit. We got the job done, and as long as we did, the brass pretty much left us alone. We ended up making a lot of our own rules. Technically I was in charge, but none of the guys let me get too full of myself. Bucky especially. He was stubborn to a fault, and the guy was a born leader, so we really didn't argue with him much. He said you were gonna practice sharpshooting? You picked up your gun and you practiced 'til he said you were done."

The clacking is back. "Did you improve?"

"Oh, yeah, of course. Practice definitely didn't hurt our skills any. None of us could ever match Buck for raw talent, but he worked us until we were as close as we could get. Christ, he loved being the best at something. Loved teasing me about it, too. Was nice to see him having a little fun..." He hears his own voice catch and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat that's threatening to choke him. "There… uh… there wasn't much chance to enjoy yourself in a war zone…"

And Steve honestly means to move on. He means to let this story drop and talk about something a little more neutral, but his brain is stuck on the memory now. The familiar scene suddenly stretches out before him like he was standing up to his knees in it.

It's 1944, cold and damp, deep in a forest in the backwoods of northern Austria. They've already blown a factory to hell down by Salzburg and rooted out every HYDRA agent for miles around them. Now it's just a matter of waiting for extraction. Stark is supposed to be picking them up by plane tomorrow morning, but at the moment they've got hours to kill and nothing productive to do. Naturally, Bucky's on him immediately to practice sniping, since they've got the time.

Steve peels himself up from his half-rotted log beside the campfire, muttering about slave-drivers while the other snicker behind their mugs of bitter, watered-down coffee. Bucky pops him lightly upside the head and tells him to quit bitching and move his super-powered ass before the sun goes down and they lose their light. The snickering grows into muffled chuckles, and Dugan's face is going red. There are tears in the big man's eyes from trying to hold back the booming laughter he's so notorious for.  
Steve just rolls his eyes, picks up his rifle, and follows Buck off into the trees, still muttering.

"Jerk-ass…"

"Pansy." Bucky calls back cheerfully. He doesn't miss it when Steve flips him the bird, but the two of them tromp companionably through the sloppy mud for a ways more, until Bucky holds out an arm and signals him to stop.  
"Yeah, this'll do just fine." He turns and points into the distance. "See that patch'a weeds down there? Aim for the big one in the middle."

"... That's 100 yards away, Buck."

Bucky smirks lazily, his own gun set casually against his shoulder. "What, you think  _Captain America_  can't make a nice, easy shot like that? Ain't even moving. It's not that hard, Steve-o."

Steve sighs and settles himself obediently into a low crouch, feeling the muck squelching around his boots as he steadies the rifle in his hands and sights the distant husk of plant stalk carefully.  
He tries to do what Bucky keeps telling him to:  _fire between breaths, clear your mind, focus on nothing but your target until you make the shot._  He squeezes the trigger and-

-misses entirely.

Bucky is falling all over himself laughing. Steve lines up his shot and tries again. The bullet vanishes into a mire of icy sludge and undergrowth. Steve pushes up to his feet, grumbling.

"C'mon, Buck, stop messing around. There's no way anybody could hit that-"

The top of the fragile stalk abruptly explodes into a powder of fibrous dust that drifts to earth like fluffy snowflakes, as Bucky straightens up and slings the rifle over his back again. He's grinning from ear to ear. Steve glares at him.  
"S'ok, Steve. Can't be good at everything, I guess."

"Oh  _fuck you_." Steve grumbles petulantly. Bucky just grins harder, sketching a mock salute. *

"Nice shootin' Cap!" Dugan's booming voice rings out from the trees nearby. Morita wolf-whistles not far beyond him, and yeah… that's definitely Dernier laughing his ass off behind that tree to their right. When he actually looks he can see Fallsworth and Jones struggling mightily not to bust a gut laughing as they lean on each other, shoulders shaking with mirth.

He had an audience… _. Just fantastic…_ At least Bucky's an equal-opportunity jerk.  
"Alright you clowns, get down here," he barks, waving them out of the trees. "Show me you're better shots than our fearless leader and I'll buy the booze next time we hit someplace civilized!"

"Sucker bet!" Morita calls back, but they all slowly file down out of the brush and take their turns. Dugan gets the closest, but none of them manages to actually make the shot. Bucky's laughing harder than he has in months. And when Steve thinks about it, honestly... Buck hasn't laughed at all in  _weeks-_

The curator's chair squeaks and Steve snaps back to 2012 with a jolt, aware that he's smiling distantly. His expression falls away when he remembers.

Hanson is staring at him, and he looks a little worried. Steve's stomach abruptly bottoms out and the room feels suddenly very claustrophobic.  
"Uh, Captain…?"

"I think that's about enough for today." Steve stands up sharply, feeling inexplicably cold all over.  
"I'll-" he desperately needs some air and a little room to think; to clear his head- "I'll be back later." Steve Rogers pivots on his heel and all but bolts from the room.

He doesn't come back for close to two weeks.

* * *

_*** inspired by bonesbuckleup of tumblr, but I lost the link to the particular meta that inspired this flashback** _


	9. Chapter 9

Once he's given the museum a mountain of anecdotes and information on Bucky Barnes to pick through, the next subject they tackle is Steve himself. Particularly, growing up.

"First of all, while I get why you wanted to go with the 'wholesome all American boy' angle - I do. Just-... wow." Rogers leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "You skipped my  _entire_  arrest record." He snorts a small laugh at his own expense. "I get that it'd take up a whole wall. I mean… that thing could've doubled as a set of encyclopedias."  
He'd gotten picked up for a little of everything, back then. Fighting, protesting the 'wrong' causes, shooting off his mouth to the wrong people, trespassing, even 'harboring a criminal' once… That whole thing had been a huge mess and Bucky'd given him hell about it for weeks after.  
The Captain's chin raises just a little defiantly when he continues, feeling suddenly defensive. Steve Rogers may have been something of a delinquent, but he had his reasons. "I didn't raise hell just for fun, y'know. Just... Somebody had to stand up." Mrs. Rogers had always told him that, even as she iced his bruises.  
"My mama raised me to do what was right, and what's right ain't always what's popular. You always gotta stand up for the right thing."

"You…" Hanson's brain stumbles over this information, eyes going wide and his jaw falling open. He's not even listening to Rogers' justifications. This simply does not compute. " _You_  had an  _arrest_  record?!"

Steve's eyebrow climbs incredulously.  
"... Of course I did." He stares back at the curator. "Got into a fist-fight at least once a week, and sometimes they pressed charges, even if I didn't get a single lick in. And I got picked up at… Christ, I don't know how many demonstrations. They started calling me 'the sign mick' at the police station after a while. Got to know me real well-"  
Hanson's eyes are the size of saucers and he looks like he'd faint dead away if a stiff breeze caught him right now. Steve blinks. "...What? You act like this is some kind'a crazy news-"  
He stops mid-sentence and whistles lowly through his teeth when realization sets in. "They scrubbed it all out when the serum worked…" he mutters distractedly, "They scrubbed my entire fucking record clean like I was some kinda goddamned boy scout… I can't decide if I'm flattered or offended."

Doug's jaw has got to be scraping the floor. Not  _only_  has Rogers got an impressive sounding rap sheet -oh, no- he also  _swears like a sailor_  when he gets worked up over something. ...And picks up quite the Brooklyn accent too.  
 _Elocution lessons,_ Hanson realizes. Of  _course_  they'd have trained their golden-boy until he could talk like a politician. He makes a frantic mental note to come back to this later, when his stomach has stopped trying to dig its way to China by dropping through his shoes.

"I'm… I'm not sure we want to put an unverifiable criminal record into your exhibit, Captain…" the curator murmurs faintly, trying very hard to make his voice stop squeaking like that.

Rogers eyes him appraisingly. Finally he nods.  
"I guess…" he shrugs. "Can you at least cut it out with the 'well-behaved goody-goody' thing everybody's pushing about me, though? It's a little creepy… I mean, I  _was_  a rowdy little bastard as a kid, and I'll own that. I sure as hell wasn't any good at just sittin' around doin' whatever I was told.  
Bucky could-" he hangs up on the name for half a second, but pushes past the leaden weight it dredges up in his chest and continues as if he doesn't feel a thing, "Buck could tell you what a pain in the ass I was."  
A deep grounding breath and then he shifts gears.  
"While we're on the subject, I didn't say half the garbage people seem to think I did. ...How about we just fix that for now and call it good?"

"Right ...that sounds great…" Doug makes himself remember how to breathe, opening a fresh document on the screen in front of him. "So, uh... what statements are wrongly attributed to you? Let's start there."

"Aw loads of stuff." Steve sighs. "For starters, I don't hate Jews. Some'a the kids we played with when I was able to go out were jews. Nice guys, but they had big mouths - like us. I thought we'd get killed a couple times getting into it with the bigger kids. We got in  _so much_  trouble together. ...Isaac and Aaron Himmelfeld, I think their names were. Moved away when I was eight. Kinda lost touch… Oh, and we had  _at least_  a couple'a jewish neighbors in our building. Mrs. Goldstein was this old widow-woman, lived down the hall from us. She was just the sweetest lady. Used to make soup for me when I was sick… which was often. A lot of people did, actually, but hers was some of the best."

Steve had been about ready to set someone on fire when he'd stumbled across an article (a long, ranty, poorly written article at that) about how much 'Captain America would hate the diversity of this country'. How he'd have sent all these 'unwelcome foreigners' packing if he were alive today. It hadn't had anything much better to say about 'the gays' ...or Mexicans, for some reason… he still hasn't quite figured out what folks problem with Mexico is. The amount of similarly ignorant drivel was part of what had spurred him to come here in the first place. He'd needed to set the record straight.  
"And while we're on the subject," he continues, "I got nothing against colored people, women, queers, or other countries. Not a damned thing. They aren't hurtin' anybody. What I don't like is bullies."

Hanson makes another mental note that he needs to inform Rogers just how offensive some of those old-fashioned terms have become, but he's got a bigger point he wants to address first.  
"But you  _did_  famously hate the Germans, Captain-"

Two massive hands suddenly slam down on the desk between them, leaving twin dents in its acrylic surface. Rogers' eyes are blazing fire.  
" _Dr. Erskine_  was German." the Captain snarls, teeth all but bared. "That man was  _kind_  and  _brilliant_ , and he was fucking  _murdered_  for trying to make the world a better place!"  
Steve is on his feet and halfway leaned across the desk before he realizes that Hanson has backed up several feet and looks petrified… like he's ready to run for his life. Steve sits numbly back down and tries not to loom.  
"... Sorry. Sorry. That was out of… I just…" he heaves a tired sigh and tries again. " _No_ , I don't hate Germans." He cards a hand wearily through his hair. "Yeah, I hate Nazis. I hate HYDRA. I hate people who hurt other people for fun, or for money, or just because. I hate bullies." He takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds until the fire in his belly has died down a little. He doesn't want to be the person that Doug Hanson is looking at him like right now. "I don't hate people unless they give me a reason to." he adds quietly.  
Steve pauses and takes another deep breath. He's having a harder time keeping his cool than he used to, and that's … well, that's saying something.  
"Look, I used to get a lot of shit because I was a little guy. 'Cause I was sick all the time or I didn't wanna keep my mouth shut. I ain't gonna do that to anybody else."  
God, he must look pathetic right now. He certainly feels it.

Hanson just swallows hard, tries to keep his composure, and nods.

They take a break for lunch. Steve doesn't come back for a good three hours.  
He doesn't lose his temper again.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey Buck… I don't know if you can hear me where you are… Like to think you're still lookin' over my shoulder." Steve sits gingerly on the edge of the alarmingly soft bed they gave him, staring at the floor, and sighs deeply. It's nearly 4 am. He hasn't slept a wink and at this point, he's given up on trying.  
"I set them straight over at that big museum in D.C., Buck. You'd never believe it: they thought  _I_  was some well-behaved little church boy." He chuckles weakly at himself. "I know, right? Didn't know much about you, so they didn't know about any of the shit  _you_  pulled either, but... I couldn't believe it. Didn't even know I'd ever been arrested. Not  _once._  They thought I never got up to anything. - _Me-_.  
Christ, I thought the guy was gonna faint when I told him about that time we nailed Marko Scarlotti's bedroom door shut for being a rotten little bastard to Gina Solkewicjz..." He trails off, not really expecting an answer, but unable to talk into the silence any longer.

The darkness looms just as empty as before. He slumps a little.  
Steve fidgets with the edge of the coverlet for a while, then stands up and paces to the window. New York City at night is brighter than it used to be. Busier. Even the stink of the city is different. He shuts his window.  
As an afterthought, he draws the curtain and slides down to sit against the wall beneath the sill, letting his head thump back with a groan.

"I'm not sure what to do without you, Bucky." Steve confesses quietly to the inky shadows. "Jesus, it's been… it's been about 70 years since you-" he still can't say it, "-since I saw you last. It don't feel like that long." A sob shimmies it's way up out of his gut, but he swallows it down viciously before it can escape into the air. To him, Bucky's only been gone for a couple of weeks. A month at the outside. It hurts like it was yesterday.  
"I'm doin' my best." he whispers desperately, trying to fill up the quiet that's slowly stifling him. "I know that's what you'd expect me to do. To keep fightin'... After everything you did to save my ass out there, I can't just give up, but… Jesus, I'm sorry, Buck, I want to. I wanted to then, I want to now. I miss you. I miss  _everybody_. I wanna be done, Buck. I just wanna be done, but I can't."  
The sob fights its way back up and out with a loud wail. He feels tears shoving past his lids, so he simply lets them fall, snuffling into his elbow as his shoulders wrack with sudden grief. "I ain't ever gonna be done, am I?"  
He shivers hard, wrapping both arms around himself and lets his head hang, tears flowing freely down his cheeks as he chokes on the guilt, misery, and grief that's festering inside him.

It's a long while, sun high in the sky, before he finally crawls to his feet and drags himself into the kitchen to start some coffee. The heavy weariness that settles over him as he waits for it to brew has nothing to do with the sleep he didn't get. He's simply too tired to struggle anymore.

 


	11. Chapter 11

_**1945 - Location Unknown** _

"Nice try. I ain't that gullible." Bucky manages after a few seconds, lip curling with disgust. "You think I'd be dumb enough to take your word for  _anything_?"

The chilly smile doesn't flicker. This bastard is really enjoying himself. "Of course not, Sergeant. I hear you are a clever man, and clever men are always expecting the trick, the sleight of hand. No, you and I are not so easily swayed by words alone." The man tugs a newspaper out of his labcoat and tosses it onto the wooden bunk beside Bucky's leg. "See for yourself."

It's a copy of the Washington Times, though how they got ahold of it out here, he's got no idea.  
 _ **Captain America Lost In Action! Country Mourns Fallen Hero!**_  the headline reads.  
A big photo of Steve in his Captain America get-up sit squarely underneath, followed by a lot of political fluff about how this person and that person mourns this terrible loss, etc. He skims across it, heart in his throat,looking for crucial details that will either debunk or confirm the story. There isn't much besides some general wailing and gnashing of teeth. The story's too vague and too puffed up to tell him much. A tiny flood of relief washes over him. He almost fell for it, too.  
Bucky defiantly raises his chin and crumples the paper in his hand.  
"Bullshit." he spits, and throws the paper on the ground. "Gonna have to make a better fake than that, asshole."

The man across from him just smiles and says something to the guards, not even glancing down at the battered newspaper at his feet. There are instantly two uniformed men hauling Bucky to his feet and out the door. His hisses sharply when they manhandle his still-tender shoulder, but neither of them seem to notice, and they certainly wouldn't care even if they did.

"I assure you, Sergeant, I could produce a much better false newspaper than that, should I desire to." The unsettling man is strolling along behind them, unhurried as ever. "But why should I bother, when the real thing is available to me? I'm sure you will feel more cooperative after a treatment."

They drag him down a hallway and through a reinforced door, into a room with what looks like an electric chair settled in the center of it. It's the first time of many that he will see that chair.

They press him down to the seat and wrap thick leather restraints across his arm and chest, pin his legs down with similar straps. So they're going to torture him again? Nothing new there.  
He's waiting for someone to start hitting him -bracing for the crack of a fist across his jaw- so it takes him completely by surprise when someone pulls a switch instead and electricity arcs through his body like a club to the brain.

He screams without meaning to.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked if we'll get some lighter chapters soon. The answer is: Not for a while. Steve and Bucky are both basically walking wounded at the moment, and they've got some heavy stuff to address. I'll try to keep it from getting too heavy though :) (Probably want to keep those puppies around for hugging...)

_**2012 - Brooklyn, NY** _

The Smithsonian exhibit is undergoing a  _very_   _thorough_  renovation when Colonel Fury, the leader of the new SSR, (S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently - he's almost flattered,) finds him.  
Steve is still seething with the undirected misery - that deep, smoldering anger that he just can't root out of himself. He's doing what he always does at awful hours of the morning when he can't get any rest - bludgeoning a series of punching bags to death, as if each one were personally responsible for all the horrible memories that just won't. get. out of. his. fucking.  _head._ The latest unfortunate bag flies across the room after one brutal punch too many, split open and trailing sand like blood. The pent up rage that boils low in Steve's chest hasn't abated, though.  
It never does.

Directory Fury has a job for him.  
Steve respects Fury. He does. He would just really like him and everyone else to fuck the hell off right about now, so Steve can wallow in his misery in peace. It doesn't seem like such an unreasonable thing to ask.

He doesn't speak his thoughts, but the colonel seems to know exactly what he's thinking anyway. It doesn't really matter if Steve wants to go. They need him in the field, and no matter how it's phrased, this is  _not_  a request. He understands how orders work quite well enough by now.  
Besides, no matter how much he'd like to politely tell S.H.I.E.L.D. to go get fucked, this isn't something he can really turn his back on. Even if he  _could,_  he's just too damned wrung out right now to out-stubborn someone as persistent as Fury has proven to be.

Steve's going to save the world. Again.  
He's going to have to, because  _somebody_  pulled the fucking Tesseract out of the ocean, where it should've been left to rot, and thought that'd be a good idea. And then, predictably, someone  _else_  stole it.  
Because  _obviously_  that stupid damned glow-box hasn't ruined enough lives yet, let's unleash it on a few more. What a fan-fucking-tastic idea.

Steve might be just the tiniest bit bitter, that the thing that indirectly murdered his best friend and destroyed everything it ever came in contact with, - the thing he fucking  _died_  (or at least  _tried_  to) to keep out of the wrong hands- …that thing is now trying to destroy  _the_   _future_  too.

Because of course it fucking is.  
It's not like his life is worth anything. Why did he think laying it down would solve the problem?


	13. Chapter 13

_**1945 - Location Unknown** _

Bucky's mind is soup by the time they unstrap his listless body and drag him away from the chair again. He can't stand up anymore, so they simply drop him on his bunk, lock the door, and walk away. He lays there a long time, trying to find something,  _any_ thing to cling to and steady himself.  
His name is… ...is…..  
He doesn't know.

All he can remember is blue eyes and blonde hair, and the idea that he has to protect someone at all costs. Like a bubble through thick muck, a name slowly surfaces.  
"...Steve." he murmurs through dry, cracked lips.

In bits and drips, the rest follows. He gets his name back. He remembers where he is, and he thinks he can remember why. Not much more than that.

At some point, he falls into a restless sleep. The man in the labcoat is back when he wakes up.

* * *

" _Christ…_  don't you… don't you people ever knock?" Bucky manages, wearily levering himself up to sit. His head is still spinning, but he knows that he hates this guy, and that's enough to go on for now.

"Oh, but you looked so comfortable." The smile seems sharp edged and vicious, though he couldn't say why. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"Like hell." Bucky snorts, feeling a little more comfortable with this. Sassing assholes is an ingrained habit. Familiar all the way down to his bones. He's on steadier ground with this. "You live to fuck with me."

"Don't flatter yourself, Sergeant." -and, oh...right…  _Sergeant._ He is a sergeant, isn't he? He'd forgotten that detail, but it comes slowly back through the fog now that he thinks harder about it. "I simply enjoy our little chats. Don't you?"

"Go to hell."

"Ah, but then how would I be able to bring you this little taste of home?" Another newspaper drops with a rustle of pages, into Barnes' lap. "One must keep up on current events."

This time it's the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. This time there are details. Bucky's heart sinks with every line he reads.

_**Local Son, Steve Rogers (Captain America) Lost Overseas. Nation Mourns.** _

_Captain Rogers, a Brooklyn, NY native, was killed in action this past week, while serving his country. A memorial service will be held on Sunday, December 14th, 5:30 pm, at Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church. Mourners are asked to allow family and friends to take their places before finding a seat._

The article goes on with details and a biography of Steve's life. Bucky ticks off everything he can remember for certain. Only child, check. Both parents dead, check. They got his birthday right….

Apparently Steve hijacked an enemy plane in the middle of a huge raid, something named the Valkyrie (Red Skull sure liked to be dramatic), and crashed it someplace in the arctic so it wouldn't make land with a crazy payload of bombs. ...He went down with the ship. Bucky swallows hard.  
…That sure  _sounds_  like the kind of stupid shit Steve would do.

Bucky's hand shakes when he gets to the part he's really been dreading. The proof.  
The paper talked to his ma. It looks genuine. There's no way they could get this kind of information to fake it. There's even a picture of her and Cathy, holding one of those stupid Bucky-Bear toys from the comic-books.

_Mrs. Barnes graciously invited us into her home to talk about both the late Captain Rogers, and her son James Barnes, who was killed in action only a few weeks prior while serving with the Captain._

" _The boys were inseparable from the time they were just little scamps," she tells us, taking a small framed photograph from her china cabinet and passing it around. Two small boys, one gap-toothed and tall, with a mop of dark curls, the other smaller and fair, stand on Coney Island beach with arms linked, grinning for the camera. "You almost never saw one of them without the other. Steven all but lived at our house half the time, and my Bucky - that was James' nickname, you see- my Bucky lived at the Rogers' house the other half."_

_Did you have any idea then, we ask her, what would become of these young men?_

" _Oh no, certainly not." Mrs. Barnes says, hands folded in her lap. "I was always afraid Steven would pass young like his parents did, but I thought surely it'd be pneumonia or scarlet fever that did it. He was a sweet, earnest little thing, but he courted trouble all the time, and he was always catching something awful. There was a priest at the Roger's place every winter, at least once. I don't know how many times that poor boy got the last rites, but he always pulled through somehow. I could hardly believe it when they told me that big fella with the shield was little Steve. He always did have big ideas..."_

" _My Bucky, though…" And she pauses here, eyes filling with tears, "I always thought he'd come back to us. I thought I'd cry at his wedding, not his funeral."  
_ _A young girl of 4 suddenly comes to her mother from the next room and climbs into her lap. Catherine Barnes is introduced. "Bucky was so important to all of us." Mrs. Barnes continues with visible effort, holding her daughter and stroking her hair. The little girl doesn't appear to understand that her brother is not coming home, only that her mother is upset. She offers up the teddy-bear in her arms, which turns out to be fashioned after Bucky Barnes' Howling Commando's uniform.  
_ " _You have to understand," Mrs. Barnes tells us, accepting the bear with a sad smile, "My James was a caretaker. He looked after everyone. When his father passed, James had to take on three jobs, but he never complained. He was my angel."  
_ _Little Catherine decides to add her input as well. "My brother is the best brother in the world." she says matter-of-factly. "I sent him a dolly, but he didn't say if he likes it yet. Mama said he would, though."_

 _Do you miss your brother? we ask her. Catherine looks scandalized.  
_ " _I miss_ both  _of my brothers." she says, tucking her face shyly into her mother's dress. "Mama says Bucky is with Steve, but she won't say where."_

The article goes on, but Bucky can't read anymore. His whole body is shaking and his fingers are threatening to stab through the page, he's gripping it so tight.

"I can see you have much to think about." the man across from him says lightly, standing up and collecting his little stool. "I'll leave you to it."

Bucky barely hears the door locking or the goose-step of the guards marching to the end of the hallway, where they will remain for the next several days. He's left alone in the half-light without so much as a sound to distract him.

Unbidden, a sharp ugly sob rips out of his chest and the page smashes between clenching fingers.

He failed out there. Steve is dead.


	14. Chapter 14

_**2012 - Location Unknown (S.H.I.E.L.D aircraft)** _

The flight crew hand over a roughly 18x24 screen that's 90% thin glass, as Steve takes his seat. It flickers to life as soon as he starts to ask what exactly the hell he's holding, displaying a crisp Starktech logo in stunning color across the glass. A polite voice with a posh British accent greets him a moment later, apparently out of thin air, though he quickly realizes it's coming from the thing in his hands.

_**Welcome Captain Rogers. Voice recognition accepted. Please press the indicated space to continue.** _

A large silver button, cleverly shaded to look dimensional, materializes in the center of the screen and glows blue for a moment. It pulses with light until he gingerly taps it with a fingertip. The screen clears. A neat array of thumbnail photographs with underlined text beneath each one arrange themselves across the screen, beneath a drawing of a file folder with papers spilling out of it, that is labeled ' _Mission Brief_ '.  
There is a man with a cocky smirk and terrible facial hair, a red-haired woman with unfathomable eyes, and a small dark-haired man with thick glasses perched on his nose.

**These individuals will assist in your mission, Captain. In order to view a file, please touch the appropriate photograph.**

After a brief discussion with … er… the screen? Steve figures out that this thing is loaded with fairly extensive profiles on his three soon-to-be teammates, and he has about four hours to study up on the contents before he and his escort land… wherever it is exactly that they're going. No one has been very clear on that front. Still, Steve doubts he'll need more than two hours, tops, once he gets the hang of the screen thing.

The interface ends up actually being pretty simple and straightforward, once he understands the general idea.

Just touch and drag to move things around. Tap an item to expand it. Tap a film clip to start it playing. Tap again to stop it. It's actually kind of fun, just exploring the thing.  
 _Bucky would_ \- ...he trips headlong over the thought, his good mood crashing with him. The small smile that had flickered across his face vanishes.  
...No good can come of going down that road. He needs to focus.

Steve gets back down to business with frown furrowing his brow, and opens the first set of files with a decisive tap. He won't let himself finish the thought,  _Bucky would've loved this thing…_ … Even if it's true.


	15. Chapter 15

Steve raises an eyebrow as he skims the mission briefing at the top of the page. Apparently the person who came up with his stage name is still running amok. What on earth possessed these people to pick these  _names_? Granted, his own code name is pretty silly, but at least he can say he didn't come up with it. A lot of propaganda was over-the-top during the war. ...He's not so sure these guys can make the same claim, though.  
...Really, how can they expect him to take this seriously when his teammates have names like Iron Man? The Hulk? Black Widow? -As if 'Red Skull' wasn't bad enough…  
He's tempted to ask the disembodied voice for a rundown of what the  _actual hell_ , but decides against it in the end. The why isn't all that important. It's the  _who_  that he's worried about.  
He keeps reading.

Before he's even halfway through the man's profile, Steve finds himself disliking Iron Man. Something about him just really rubs Steve the wrong way. He doesn't have the patience to deal with some spoiled little rich brat's ego right now, and it sounds like the guy is more of a liability than a help. Stark's kid is apparently just as brilliant as Howard was, but the files indicate that he's also loud, rude, a drunk, and an all around self-centered jerk. This is someone who'd happily throw the rest of his team under the bus and go take a victory lap right after. Steve already knows they're going to butt heads, but he makes a mental note to at least try to be an adult about it. (He can practically hear Bucky's voice cracking up in his head, at the thought of  _Steve_  being the grown-up in any situation…)

The Black Widow he just finds a little confusing. He can't keep straight which identity is her real one and which ones are fake, no matter how many times he re-reads her biography. There are large gaps that he feels really ought to be explained, that aren't. The most solid bead he can get on her is that she's Russian and she has a long history with S.H.I.E.L.D. The Russians were allies in the war, and while he knows the world has moved on, that's at least  _something_  to go on.  
Ms. Romanoff actually reminds him just a little of Peggy... if Peggy had been side-long and surreptitious instead of direct and utterly no-nonsense. Thinking of Peggy triggers another familiar ache. He makes himself move on before he can examine it too closely.

Steve puzzles for a few moments over  _The Hulk_ before he clicks. What the hell kind of code-name  _is_  that? It's an awfully ambitious title for a skinny little fella like Banner. It'd be like Steve calling himself  _Mr. Huge_  before the serum. Pretty ridiculous.  
The name honestly kind of reminds him of those terrible horror flicks that the theater used to show sometimes, when it was a real slow day. Did this guy just pick words out of a hat or something?

The name suddenly makes a lot more sense once he starts reading through Dr. Banner's file. Apparently The Hulk isn't Banner. It's the giant green monster that the scientist morphs into when he's angry. Nothing has yet managed to stop The Hulk when it goes on a rampage and the monster appears to be nigh on indestructible… Given that and the ridiculous size of that thing, maybe the name is pretty apt after all…He'd imagine that when something that big and angry decides on a name, not many people are going to argue.

Steve looks up from a video of the big green monster hurling cars across a city block and roaring like a pissed off dinosaur, mulling over what he's just read and seen. Hard to believe there's a human being under there… Harder still to believe that  _thing's_ existence is at least partly his fault.  
"So this Dr. Banner was trying to replicate the serum they used on me?"

"A lot of people were. You were the world's first superhero."  
Coulson -the agent in charge of collecting him for this mission- answers immediately; crossing the plane like a loyal puppy. He's been lingering awfully close since they boarded, but this is the first that the two of them have really spoken.

The conversation quickly goes downhill from there.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Steve tries not to sigh. It's going to be a  _really_ long flight.

Apparently Captain America has a rabid fan in one Phil Coulson, who -the longer he talks- just gets more and more awkward. Coulson seems to be just this side of tattooing "I love Cap" on his chest and running around in a stars-and-stripes onesie. The man apparently sat and stared while Steve was being thawed… for hours. An agent with Coulson's clearance level, REALLY ought to have had better things to do with his time…

Phil's admiration progresses rapidly as he talks, from mildly flattering, to uncomfortable, to outright creepy.  
Steve's never considered parachuting out of a plane at altitude more seriously in his life… and that's including the time he actually did so under enemy fire.

… Oh and Phil helped redesign the uniform they'll be putting him in. Steve tries to smile at Coulson's obvious enthusiasm over that. … Fantastic. That won't be awkward at  _all…_


	17. Chapter 17

**1945 - Location Unknown**

Days blur into nights, into days, and back again; until time means nothing at all. Bucky crouches on the floor beneath his 'bunk', arm coiled tight around his knees, and stares at nothing.

He did everything he could, didn't he? He fucking  _died_  to protect Steve… or at least ...he should have.  
And that's it, isn't it? It should've been him. That's what it boils down to. He was supposed to keep Steve safe. He was supposed to die so Steve could live, and instead… His head drops hard against his knee and his shoulders shake.  
 _Instead_ , he thinks miserably, dragging in a ragged breath and feeling hot tears stinging at his eyes, _instead I'm here and he's-  
_...He can't make himself say it.

 _Did_  he do everything possible? The thought is terrible, but it lingers. The doubt. Could he have done more? If he'd tried, could he have convinced Steve to go home? Would he have run for it if Steve was willing to run with him? … He should've found out.  
Better to go AWOL than crash and freeze to death in god-knows-where. Better than falling into enemy hands again.  
What a fucking mess...

"I'm so sorry, Steve…" Bucky whispers, dry throat turning his voice husky and harsh. "I did my best, kid. I really tried. Jesus, Steve, I tried."

The silence that answers is condemning. It doesn't matter if he tried. What matters is that he failed. He'd made a promise to himself, to god, to Steve's ma (who was practically a second mother to him); that he'd keep Steve safe, no matter what. And he botched it…

He can still see her like it was yesterday, abruptly clearer than any of the other contents of his brain: Mrs. Rogers, pale and wasted, in those last few days before the end. She'd been confined to her bed by then, every struggling breath wheezing in her chest, fighting against time not to die before Steve's birthday. To give him that one last thing in this world.  
She hadn't made it.

Bucky had been at the Rogers' place every moment he could get away from work, trying to help out. He'd swept the place clean last night, and hung the neglected washing up to dry so Steve wouldn't have to. The kid had started to look like a ghost himself, the way he was drifting around, staring at nothing. He knew the end was closing in, same as anybody else. He just didn't know what to do with that, so he refused to see it. Steve hovered by his mother's bed most of the time, put on a brave face for her. She wasn't fooled anymore than she ever was, but she pretended right back. For Steve.

Steve had finally left the room to make her some broth for dinner, only after Bucky had promised to stay with her, in case she needed anything. Really, it had been in case she passed, so she wouldn't be alone when it happened. None of them acknowledged it, but they all knew it just the same. It was part of why Steve had to be pried away with a crowbar for the littlest things. He was so afraid she'd be taken before he could say goodbye…

Bucky honestly would've happily kept Steve out of the sick-room completely if he'd had his way; terrified that Steve would catch it too. That he'd be sitting by Steve's bedside next, watching his best friend gasping out his last breaths, just like Mrs. Rogers was doing now.  
Bucky doesn't get his way. He doesn't even try to keep Steve out. They both know he'd never succeed, and there's enough terrible in their lives as it is without the two of them getting into a stupid fight neither of them will ever win.  
Steve won't leave Mrs. Rogers to fade away alone, and Bucky won't leave Steve to face this thing without him. So they compromise. Steve leaves the room occasionally, reluctantly, gets a breath of fresh(er) air, takes a few moments to break down in the relative privacy of the kitchen. Then he's back like nothing happened. Bucky tries to take it in stride and keep his fears to himself. He think she does alright.

"I'll be right back, Ma." Steve was promising. "Bucky'll be here if you want anything. Five minutes, I promise." He'd lingered for a moment or two, hovering by the door until his ma had smiled for him and nodded. Steve finally took his cue and went.

And then it was just her and Bucky, alone in the stuffy, dusk-touched room.  
That had been when she'd taken Bucky's hand in her fragile fingers and she'd made him promise.

"James... you've always been good to Steve and me." Mrs. Rogers had said softly, rasping like her chest was in a vice. A thin, wet cough interrupted, but she fought her way past it. "You can't know how… how much that means, knowing he has you. He'll need you … more than ever… when I'm gone." God, she sounded awful. He pushed away the sharp needle of fear that stabbed into his chest to see how fragile she'd become and looked into her sunken eyes, the same brilliant blue as her son's. There wasn't much he could do to make her more comfortable, so he lied instead.

"Nah, you're not goin' anywhere." Bucky soothed gently, covering her cold, cold hands with his rough, warm ones and trying vainly to give her a little heat back. Nothing seemed to keep the chill out her bones anymore, despite the muggy June weather and every blanket in the house. Death wasn't far behind Sarah Rogers. "Tough gal like you?" He offered her a watery smile. "You got ages left."

"You'll… you'll look after him ...won't you?" Mrs. Rogers had wheezed, not bothering to waste air on contradicting him. Her lungs sounded heavy and wet. Her lips had gone just the faintest bit blue around the edges. "Keep my boy out of trouble?"

"Course I will." he'd promised her, eyes darting to the door and back. He was a little afraid she'd slip away right here, before Steve came back, and he wasn't sure what that'd do to his best friend... only that it'd be catastrophic.  _Hurry_ _ **up**_ _, Steve..._  "I won't let nothin' happen to him, you know that." And really, it wasn't like she even had to ask.

She'd smiled at him, apparently relieved to hear him confirm it, and sunk back into her thin pillow, weary and weak. A stiff breeze might've blown her to pieces. She gave his fingers a frail squeeze.  
"You're a good boy, James Barnes." she'd whispered, as Steve's footsteps sounded in the hall outside, back as quickly as he'd said. "And a blessing."

Bucky had had to leave a few hours after that, and it'd been the last time he spoke to Mrs. Rogers. He'd been given triple shifts by the foreman when one of the other guys got sick, and barely had time to sleep between them. Mrs. Rogers passed away in her sleep two days later, while he'd was still at work. He wasn't able to get back in time.  
Steve had sat with her throughout. He'd still been sitting there, holding her cold, stiff hand, as rigid as a rail, when Bucky got there.  
Steve hadn't said a word to him, just looked up at his friend with red-rimmed eyes like the world had just ended. There was no blame. No anger. Just so much pain. Steve had never looked so lost in his life. Bucky'd set a hand heavily on his friend's shoulder and tried to lend silent support as best he could. It hadn't been enough, but it was all he had to give.

Bucky'd been helpless to protect Steve from the world then, and he's failed to protect him now.

Bucky digs his fingers into his eyes, hard, and rubs, trying to scrub away the pain that's building there.  
He lied to Steve's ma is what it amounts to. He  _promised._  And now look where he's gotten them.


	18. Chapter 18

No one comes in or out of Barnes' cell for over a week. He has a bucket of scummy water in the corner that they gave him when he first got dropped here, but nothing else. They leave him to stew in his own guilt until he's ready to scream, just for something else to focus on. He starts counting the cracks in the wall, feeling like he's hanging by a thread. And that thread is dangerously close to snapping...  
He sleeps as little as possible, nightmares jolting him awake, until finally something in him just…  _breaks_. He can't do this anymore. Can't function. Can't stand himself anymore.

In a fog, he slowly curls up in a ball on the cold, rough ground, as small as he can make himself, and stays there, eyes vacant in the semi-darkness. He lies there, just breathing, unnoticed tears cutting trails through the smudges of dirt now and again. He doesn't move.  
When Bucky's been lying on the floor, unmoving, for days, listlessly staring at the wall beneath his bunk and muttering to himself under his breath, the guards finally return for him.

He drags limp between them as they haul him back to the chair, unable to muster the energy to fight them.  
What's the point?  
They'll get what they want no matter what he does. Rescue isn't coming. It's over.  
Steve is dead. He's never going home - was  _never going_ to go home. Struggling won't change that.

_I'm sorry Ma. I'm sorry Becca. Rae. Cathy. I love you guys. I ain't commin' back. … I'm so sorry._

Bucky doesn't even hear himself scream as the electricity snaps through him like a whip, erasing him as it goes.


	19. Chapter 19

When the machine is finished and they finally unstrap him from the chair, Barnes falls out of it. He's been wiped clean inside. They let the thing run much longer than the last time, apparently just to see what it would do. Let it go until he finally blacked out, reflexive screams fading as his eyes rolled up in his head and his body slumped. They ran it until he stopped breathing and he had to be resuscitated before he went into cardiac arrest.

The chair hollowed him out and spat out the empty shell. His keepers are pleased.

When they bring him back around, he's disoriented and sick. He throws up at least once, and they let him without comment. All he has is pain and a chaotic mess of nothing swirling around his head. Someone asks him his name. He just stares blankly back. They smile and he watches the action, unsure why they seem so pleased with his lack of answer.  
..Does he  _have_  a name? Nothing comes to mind. Where the hell is he? Who are these people?  
…Who is  _he_?

No blue eyes come back to light the way home. No name springs to his lips. He misses something, but he couldn't tell you what it was if he tried. It doesn't seem to matter, so he lets it go, blown away by the relentless wind that scours his thoughts clean, like new-fallen snow. It's kind of ...peaceful, in an ugly sort of way. He's nothing and nobody.

They leave him in his cell again when he finally stops dry-heaving and someone declares him stable enough. He lies on his plank of wood all night, staring straight ahead, up at the ceiling.  
He doesn't sleep.

 


	20. Chapter 20

The first arm is installed later that week. It's a clumsy thing with a pincer at the end, laced with hydraulic tubes, and it weighs a ton. They have him pick things up, raise and lower the arm. He tries to obey until the weight proves to be too much for his body and muscle tears. He yelps, dropping to his knees with the pain, his remaining hand clutching the injured flesh reflexively. Someone strikes him hard across the face and shouts at him. He reels.

"Did I tell you to make noise?" they demand.

"N-no…?" he says, stunned and confused.

"Did I  _tell_  you to move?" his handler continues, not angry, just… harsh. He's being disciplined, he realizes.

"No… sir."

"Then don't fucking move, and don't make noise." the person snaps.

They take the arm off and operate to repair the damaged muscle. It hurts like hell but he keeps his silence as best he can. They told him to be quiet.


End file.
